Royai Week
by panicroomwriter
Summary: Seven different one-shots written for Royai Week. [Ratings vary from K to M]
1. Firsts

Riza Hawkeye sat on the floor of the study, pensively observing her father's pupil as he furiously scribbled alchemical arrays onto his notebook. She remembered not having particularly liked him at first – just another kid, another _boy_ – probably a lot like the ones at school, she figured.

Over the course of the past year however, she had discovered that this wasn't true in the slightest. He had never made fun of her, never hurt her – and most importantly, he had never ignored her. In fact, he seemed eager to do everything in his power to befriend her. _Befriend – _yes, Riza supposed she could call it that.

"Hey, Roy?" she called softly from where she sat on the dusty rug, waiting for him to look up at her. He sighed heavily, pushing strands of black hair over his forehead and out of his eyes.

"Give me a minute. Master Hawkeye's gonna incinerate me if I don't finish this," he said, keeping his head bent over the papers.

"You've been working all afternoon," she remarked casually after a second of silence. He didn't reply, and instead flipped the next page of his book rather forcefully – nearly tearing it off.

"The sun's gonna set soon…" she continued, her voice as level as always. Roy slowly dropped his pencil on the desk and raised his head to look out past the window. He frowned when the sun's position in the sky confirmed Riza's statement for him.

"Okay, fine," he relented, pushing his chair back with a screech as its feet dragged against the hardwood floor. Riza smiled victoriously – she had learned rather quickly that it didn't take much to distract Roy from work. She then followed him to the door with a rather enthusiastic jaunt in her step.

"I'll wait here while you change," she told him once they reached the top of the stairs. At that Roy glanced nervously down the hall towards the door to his room – only one away from Master Hawkeye's.

"Don't worry, he took his medication – he's asleep now," Riza reassured him before he could voice a protest.

"Okay," he replied, turning to her again. "Just watch my back."

He waited until he saw her nod before making his way down the hall, all the while feeling her eyes follow his every movement.  
When he returned, he had replaced his pants with swim trunks – and Riza was still standing where he had left her, watching carefully over him in case her father were to wake. _Hawk-eyed indeed_, Roy thought to himself. She almost looked protective when her eyes were fixed on him like that.

"Alright then," he said through a smile, "Let's go."

"Just keep quiet until we're out of the house," Riza whispered as she followed him down the steps.

"I know, I know," he breathed even as his feet sent the stairs creaking under his weight. Riza couldn't help but smile – his stubborn idiocy was quite endearing, really.

Once they had stepped outside, Roy shut the door as quietly as possible – and then they were off, running along the dirt path over the hill, and heading down to the lake hidden behind the trees. It was their retreat, their getaway – a place where they could enjoy the pleasure of being kids without Berthold monitoring their actions, dictating their time spent side by side.

There was something absolutely conspiratorial that Riza loved about it all – the way they snuck away without a sound, the way they then jumped about in the water, the way they talked and the way he made her smile and the way she managed to deadpan jokes and still make him laugh. And then they'd walk home at sundown as slowly as possible – clinging on to time until they couldn't drag the evening out any longer.

These were the tiny moments Riza remembered as the highlights of her childhood – the time spent with her father's apprentice. Somehow he managed to ward off the loneliness she didn't even know she harbored – he filled some sort of void she hadn't even been aware needed filling with his presence.

She wondered – on evenings like these – if this was what it meant to have a friend. She had never really had one before – only acquaintances of varying degrees at school – and didn't know if this was what it was supposed to feel like.  
She only knew that she was happier than she had ever remembered being when he was by her side – and that she would trade anything in the world to keep him there. He made her feel complete.

_Friends_.

She would mull the word over in her mind, knead it into her head. It made her feel warm just thinking about it – about him. Because among the many other roles he would later take on in her life, Roy Mustang would always be Riza Hawkeye's first friend.


	2. Undercover

**This takes place in Ishval - shortly after Roy and Riza have moved to help lead the Reconstruction there.**

* * *

An inexplicable need to sanitize – to wash her hands over and over again, scrub at them until raw red patterns surfaced onto her skin. An urge to _clean_, erase every trace of blood encrusted at the tips of her fingers, remove the dirt and grime lining her nails – even though it had all been rinsed away long ago.

The nightmares of soiled hands still claw at her in her sleep – they come in merciless bouts, reaching, scratching, chocking – until she wakes with droplets of sweat beading down her brow, and wracking tremors breaking her from the inside out.

Riza can't see anything but her hands resting in her lap – horrid claws stark white against the dark bed sheets. They're the same cruel monsters chasing her though her mind – the same demonic beasts which strangle life itself until it can't breathe, can't breathe, _can't breathe anymore _–

Her chest is heaving up and down, frantically keeping pace with the rapid beat her heart has set – and when she lashes out the tempo increases to a fluttery panic before something catches hold of her. Suddenly she's immobilized – faintly aware of the fact that her limbs are struggling against a restricting pressure. She regains her senses enough to focus on the sounds other than the rush of blood in her ears, and it's all disquietingly disturbing without the soundtrack of explosions or gunfire playing through her head.

"Hey, shh . . ." It's a voice – disembodied, floating in the air – but somehow it drives away the soiled hands haunting the usually secure corners of her mind. "You're alright, Riza. You're alright."

She can't exactly piece the disjointed syllables together, but she likes the rhythm of this voice, of this steady cadence she can follow. She struggles not to drown, to keep time with the waves of each new melody it composes – until she's overcome with a desperate need to hold on to something concrete again.

When her vision comes into focus she's suddenly afraid – she searches for the hot white desert sand and scalding sun, but instead tumbles into disorienting obscurity. A panicked noise escapes her throat, and she's sure it was meant to be a faint call of distress – but it comes out tortured and plaintive more than anything else.

"Shh… Breathe, breathe." Now she can hear it – she can only barely hear the voice over the sound of her frantic panting. It's giving her instruction, guiding her – and she's so lost that she follows what it says like a sailor would their compass.

"Breathe with me, Riza," it tells her. She does as she's told and the world comes back together abruptly, harshly – fragmented bits of reality, puzzle pieces jammed and forced together.

When she dares to look down at the aberration that is her own hand again, all she registers is the strong, protective one cloaking it. Whether it's hiding the monster, containing it, or driving it away, she can't tell – but she's infinitely glad for the much needed succor it brings to her scattered, vulnerable mind. She chooses to concentrate on it alone – to rebuild the universe as she knows it around this single point, this single anchor – her only safe harbor.

"Roy," she chokes out faintly – because now she has enough sense to know that it's him, that her wellbeing suddenly relies on his – on his presence and his health and _Roy, Roy, Roy._ A small part of her hates herself for not being able to be the anchor all the time – to need the rescue.

"I'm here," he reassures her. "I'm here."

Riza registers the secure strength in his arms – enveloping her form to keep her steady. The sheets over her lap are covered with wet droplets fallen from her cheeks, and creased where tense fists tremble at the sheer effort it takes to keep emotions from spilling over any more. When it proves to be too much she leans back into his embrace, does nothing more to fight – and instead lets it all brim over without a single sound to break the heavy silence that's settled in the room.

She closes her eyes, with harsh creases drawing themselves between her brows as she feels the rough pads of his fingers brushing away the wetness on her face. That's when she really regains her bearings – and brings his hand down to hold it in hers. The monster's gone and it's just him and her – him listening as her breathing deepens and ebbs back into normalcy again.

He presses his lips to her temple and leaves them there for long counts – keeping time with her heartbeat because he can feel her pulse. He pulls back once she brings her hand up his arms – to hold him the way he's holding her – and they sit still in the darkness with nothing but the tiny sliver of moonlight squeezing between the curtains watching over them.

"Let me get you some water," he finally tells her. She lets him leave without a word and accepts the glass from his hand when he returns – but she's the one to set it on the nightstand once she's done.

"I don't think I can go back to bed," she says with exhaustion heavy laden in her voice. The clock on the wall reads _3:37 am._

"Then tell me about it," he tells her simply. When she doesn't answer, he continues, "It'll help, I promise."  
She shakes her head and leans back against the headboard with her eyes shut – and the blood stains are still there, splattered against the back of her eyelids. Footage plays back in her mind like an old news reel. She reaches for his hand tangled among the sheets.

"Please," he finally adds. "You don't need to keep this bottled up – not everything should be kept undercover."

The desert heat has been drying her out over the past few weeks – Ishval's climate is harsh, the air is dusty, and all she can see when she rounds corners of buildings in her dreams are withered corpses. They're either burnt – with once red patterns turning skin to charcoal – or completely defiled by the spray of gunfire. She can't avert her eyes from the precise hole-punch marking in their bodies, filtering the flow of blood as it streams over their pure white cloaks. It taints the fabric crimson red.  
Their eyes remain wide open, staring at her – an accusation. Because it's her fault. One way or another, she killed them all.  
And if she hadn't been around – hadn't made the _choice _– he wouldn't have had to kill them either.

"Do you ever blame me?" she asks softly, thickly. She doesn't need to elaborate because she knows he get the dreams too – knows exactly what she's referring to.

"Of course not," he answers, squeezing her hand in what he hopes is a comforting gesture – but also to brace himself. "Never," he adds faintly. "I've never blamed you."

Frustration takes hold – anger and shame solely directed at herself – and suddenly the edges of her carefully constructed barriers are crumbling. She looks away because she doesn't want to risk him seeing her face now – twisted in sorrow and desperate anguish. She doesn't want to hurt him, and _why is she falling apart like this?_

"I was so afraid, Roy," she chokes out, staring down intently at the floor. "I was afraid back then – that you hated me for everything."

Before she knows it he's come close to her again – and now he's holding her, trying to get her to look at him. And even though she keeps her eyes shut, distress is marked so clearly on her face that she can't possibly hide it from him anymore.

"Riza, I –" He can't find the right words right now – not when his emotions are clogging his mind and heart.

When she speaks again, he has difficulty making out her words through her broken voice.  
"_I _killed them all and – now I can't stop thinking about it. I remember being – so ashamed of myself – so disgusted. I couldn't look – at my own hands, at myself. And I dragged you down along with me – because everything you did was _my_ fault. And I'm – so _sorry_, Roy. I'm so sorry."

And now Roy suddenly realizes that he's started crying alongside her – and in that moment he's a stranger to everything but the pain in his chest at watching her like this. He's looking though a mirror – sees the same emotions in her eyes that he's been hiding himself over the years.

"I never hated you – Riza, I could never hate you," he tells her, trying not to cry any more than he already is, pressing his forehead over hers. "But I was scared too." She waits for him to keep talking – she doesn't trust herself to speak again.

"I was the one who betrayed you," he goes on. "You trusted me, and I couldn't – I couldn't even keep my word. . . I didn't think you'd want to see my face – not after the war. But you came back and – I can't tell you how happy I am you did. I never hated you – not for a second."

The atmosphere is so heavy in the room, it's weighing her down – compressing her head to the point where her mind is suffocating, her limbs crushed and chained down. She holds him – or maybe he's holding her, she's not entirely sure – because all they have to cling to is each other. They're just barely keeping their heads above the water, and she knows they'd both have drowned long ago without the other there.

She threads he fingers through the hair at the back of his head, and he runs his hands over her back in slow circles – until their breathing isn't so shallow anymore. It only takes one to calm down for the other to do the same – they follow each other, find peace in the other's serenity.  
Finally Riza lets out a half-laugh – quiet and tired.

"You know I'm glad I did – follow you, I mean," she whispers by his ear. "Who knows where you'd be now if I hadn't."

"Out on the side of the road or dead and buried," he answers back – joking, yet completely serious all at once. He chuckles as the pressure around them lifts. They can do this without tears.

"I know it was _our _mistake," Riza says, her voice partially muffled by his shoulder. "But it's so easy to blame myself – to hate myself sometimes. And this place only makes it easier to remember."

Roy brings his hand to the back of her head, almost cradling it against him.

"I know – I get the nightmares too," he tells her. "But we're going to make this so much better, Riza. You said that we could never atone for what we've done – but this is the closest we'll come. It's a new chance to correct things."

"Hmm," she hums in agreement. "I'm proud of you. . . I'm so glad I trusted you – and I never blamed you, Roy."

Roy breaks the lock he has on her only to pull back enough to kiss her lips – softly, with resolve and finality. She smiles at him and then wipes away the trail his tears have carved down the sides of his face.

"Don't hide anymore," he tells her. She nods almost imperceptibly – but it's enough for him to tell she's in agreement.

"Hey," he says, his tone lightening as she looks up to meet his eyes. "I love you so much, Riza." She can't refuse the soft smile that's begging to creep over her lips – and so she doesn't even try to.

"I love you too," she replies. They hadn't been very good at voicing their emotions to each other in the beginning of all of this – but she loves how natural it feels now – as easy as their non-verbal communication. She grabs his hand and laces his fingers between hers.

"Thank you," she adds softly.

"Come on," he tells her as he lies back down onto the bed. "Try to get some rest – we still have a couple of hours until we need to get up." Once she's lying beside him, he reaches to brush her hair out of her face, and then tucks it behind her ear.

"I don't want to sleep," she answers, and instead brings herself closer – until she's so close she might as well be laying over him. "Just – stay like this. . ."

He kisses the crown of her head and skims the tips of his fingers underneath the back of her shirt – runs them up and down her spine until she's absolutely relaxed under his touch. She lets out a calm sigh with eyes closed – and suddenly she feels like she's never had such foolish thoughts in her life.

Because how could Roy have ever hated her? Ever blamed her? No, he was too much like her in that regard – one to take the blame upon himself whenever possible.

Either way she's glad to have gotten it off her chest – almost comforted by the fact that he had thought the complete opposite. Because now she knows the soiled hands in her dreams – _her_ hands – won't be able to take hold of her as strongly – not with Roy around. He's the only one who could ever understand – ever share the burdens she'll carry with her throughout the rest of her life.

And it's far better to share them than to always keep them undercover.


End file.
